With Every Breath (14 page)

“Five years ago I conducted a study using mercury to treat tuberculosis,” Trevor began. “It was not a success.”

She gasped and dropped her hands. “Mercury? But mercury is a—”

“Poison. Yes, I know. It’s also been proven to be highly effective in treating certain diseases, and in a test tube it kills tuberculosis. It was effective in rabbits as well.”

So many of the treatments for tuberculosis were barbaric, but Trevor never endorsed any of them. At least until today, when she heard about the mercury.

He went on to explain that he’d prepared a mercury solution that was then injected beneath the skin, where it would slowly leach into the patient’s system. While his patients showed an immediate decline in their levels of bacillus, all six of them died anyway.

“Mercury poisoning is not an easy way to die,” he said. “It attacks the central nervous system, and patients lose control of their limbs. They shake uncontrollably. And their vision and hearing shut down.”

The anguish in his voice shredded her. He struggled to control his breathing as he continued, “The patients were terminally ill and knew the risks, but they were willing to take a chance. I thought it might be a real cure. Not a treatment, a
cure
. Other doctors had tried it and reported improvement, but no one had been cured yet. I was determined to find the right dosage that would kill the disease but not the patient. I had to guess, and I guessed wrong.”

Never had she seen a person so badly in need of comfort, but she feared Trevor would fling her away if she tried.

Let him try, for she wasn’t running away. She laid a hand on his shoulder. He was trembling but didn’t let it show. It made her ache how tightly contained he was, even as he was in misery.

“You can’t blame yourself for this. You didn’t know,” she whispered.

He straightened and took a deep breath. “Yes, well. Someone clearly remembers and wants to be sure I’m unable to continue working in this field.”

“Perhaps a family member of one of the patients?”

He nodded. “It seems the logical place to start looking. In the meantime, I need to hire guards for around-the-clock security at the clinic.”

“Can’t the hospital provide that?”

“The superintendent won’t pay for it. I hate to squander research dollars on it, but I can’t afford another disaster.”

This was typical Trevor, refusing to reach out for help. “The marines provide guard services at all the navy hospitals. My little brother guards the office of the surgeon general. Since you’re conducting this study at the behest of the surgeon general, I expect the military might provide security.”

For the first time, Trevor perked up. “They would do that?”

“It couldn’t hurt to ask. Wait . . .
I’ll
ask. I don’t want you making a hash out of this.”

A ghost of a smile hovered on his mouth. “Are you suggesting you’re better at dealing with people than I am?”

She stood and shook out her skirt. “Trevor, on any given day you might beat me in trigonometry. Or chemistry. Or a footrace. On very rare occasions you will beat me in a spelling contest. But you will never, not even on your best day, beat me in the category of basic human warmth.”

Amusement lurked in his dark eyes. “You’re probably right.” He stood and, to her great surprise, took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Thanks, Kate.”

Then he let go of her hand and sauntered off in that long-legged stride of his. The spot where his lips had touched her hand tingled during the entire walk home.

9

G
etting away from the hospital was always tricky, but Trevor got another doctor to take patient samples for the next few days while he braced himself to reopen old wounds. The ache of regret churned through him as he stared out the window of the rumbling train on his way to Baltimore.

The Baltimore study was the worst catastrophe of his career. No one in the medical field blamed him for what happened. After all, the careful administration of toxic substances had proven the most effective form of treatment for many of the world’s most virulent diseases. When it worked, the public rejoiced and hailed the miracles of modern science. But sometimes experiments failed, and the mercury study was a torment he’d carry for the rest of his life. He dutifully published the results in the medical literature and then hoped to close the book on it for the rest of his life.

I remember
.

Whoever wrote that note and spilled the mercury in his office wanted to make it impossible for him to forget. His old hospital was the first place to start looking. Maybe Trevor had never been good at making friends, but he was a master at reading
emotions. He was on the hunt for someone who had difficulty meeting his eyes, whose muscles stiffened when they saw him, or who acted unnaturally bright.

The familiar scents of carbolic acid and floor wax greeted him as he stepped into the hospital. The nurses and orderlies seemed surprised but welcoming when they saw him. Even the doctors gathered in the staff area were cordial, inviting him to stay for a lunch.

A handful of his former associates were no longer here. Henry Harris had followed him to serve as his lab assistant in Washington. His data analyst, Andrew Doyle, had gone on to medical school at Harvard. One of his nurses married and moved to Ohio. All the others who assisted in the study were still here and seemed to welcome his visit. He merely smiled faintly in return, his spirits sinking lower as the day wore on.

The trip to the hospital was disappointing, as the next days were going to rip open every old wound as he visited the family members of the six people who’d died in the Baltimore study.

The meeting with Michael McCusker’s family was typical. The family still lived in a badly ventilated two-room apartment over a tanning factory. Mrs. McCusker had been left with four children when her husband died, and she began weeping when she saw him.

“The Lord was ready for him,” she said as she brought Trevor a glass of cool tea to the table. The glass didn’t look too clean, and from the look of the teenaged daughter who was tatting lace in the corner, at least one of the McCusker children had an active case of tuberculosis. Trevor casually rolled the glass between his fingers rather than risk a drink.

“Can you wait until my youngest gets back from school? He was just a tyke when you met him before, and I want to show him off to you.”

Looking into the face of Mike McCusker’s widow was torture, and every impulse in him wanted to flee, but he owed it to the woman. He spent the next hour listening to her son recite poetry, then helped her repair the leaky pipe beneath her kitchen sink.

He learned two things from the meeting. Two of the children in the McCusker household already had tuberculosis and didn’t know it, and they bore him no ill will for what happened five years ago.

Meetings with the other families were also fruitless. If any of these people resented him, he hadn’t been able to spot it. His failure to identify a suspect meant he would need to hire a private investigator before returning home. Washington was an easy train ride from Baltimore, and if anyone associated with his old research study was making regular trips to the city, Trevor needed to know. It was going to cost a fortune to hire someone to monitor the situation, but what else could he do?

* * * *

It was ridiculous how much pride Kate felt after securing guard coverage for the clinic. On Tick’s advice she made an appointment to speak with the commanding officer at the Marine Barracks. She pointed out that Trevor had been recruited by the surgeon general to lead the study, and the government surely had an interest in ensuring the integrity of the research. The commanding officer agreed to provide coverage for three eight-hour shifts per day until the situation was resolved.

She couldn’t wait to tell Trevor. He’d been gone for three days now, and she was counting the hours until he got back so she could share the good news. Something about the way he took her hand and pressed a kiss on the back of it had captured her imagination. In a good way. It was such an affectionate, gallant thing to do.

It was getting harder not to think about Trevor. Maybe she’d been starved of affection for too long, but every time he stepped within her line of vision, her heart sped up. Those dark good looks, the fierce intelligence, the humor that lurked just beneath the surface. She loved working alongside him. He respected her and gave her the best job imaginable. Maybe that was why she was so eager to help him by securing the guard for the hospital.

She was delighted when the marines assigned Tick to serve as one of the guards. Five days a week he would stand guard at the tubercular ward from four o’clock in the morning until noon.

“Be sure to wear your mask if you’re ever near the patients,” she cautioned him. “I’ll never forgive myself if you get infected with this disease.”

“Stop mothering me, Kate,” he said as he took his position near the back door. “I understood Nurse Ackerman’s instructions perfectly well, and you don’t need to breathe down my neck.”

She winced a little. “Yes, of course,” she murmured before heading back to the office. Tick was two inches taller than she, with wide shoulders, a strong back, and sandy-blond hair that had been trimmed to military precision. He wore his light brown field uniform with a pressed shirt and tie. He looked like a man to the outside world, but she still saw traces of the towheaded toddler who followed her around the boardinghouse, always begging for a hug.

Nurse Ackerman knocked on the door, a newspaper in her hand. “Another article for Dr. Kendall to see when he returns,” she said.

Kate wanted to snatch the newspaper from the nurse’s hands and rip it to shreds. Did Nurse Ackerman really need to keep tormenting him with every single article? Trevor already knew
he had a problem and was doing everything to root it out. Kate pinched the skin between her eyes.

“I’ll make sure he sees it,” she said wearily. Nurse Ackerman was only following Trevor’s orders, but this bombardment in the press was awful.

Just knowing the guards were here was reassuring, because the threat was no longer just hostile articles in the newspaper. Someone had infiltrated her office and splashed mercury on Trevor’s desk. Dozens of people walked in and out of the wards each day, and Kate hated the feeling of suspicion that seized her each time an unfamiliar face entered the clinic. Even with Tick and the other marines standing guard, Kate couldn’t shake the crawling suspicion that someone was watching her.

It wasn’t safe here.

* * * *

Trevor rode back into Washington on the morning train, bracing himself for the accumulation of work after a three-day absence. The backlog at the hospital would be bad, but more than anything, he dreaded what he might find at home.

The situation was far worse than anyone knew. The newspaper articles were distressing enough, but they paled in comparison to the vile letters he received at home. Always anonymous, always seething with rage.

He was tired and grubby from the three days in Baltimore, and he needed to stop off at home for a change of clothing before heading to the hospital. He battled a sense of unease as he climbed the staircase to the boarding rooms over the railway station. The rooms were cheap, as few people wanted to live above the racket of a train station, but Trevor had always been good at sectioning off his mind to ignore distractions. Besides,
his inborn sense of Scottish thrift saw this inexpensive room as perfectly fine for his modest needs.

The row of brass mail compartments gleamed at the end of the dimly lit hall. He clenched the mail key as he approached his box and drew a steadying breath. The hate-filled letters usually arrived weekly, and he was overdue.

He unlocked the small compartment and leaned down to pull out two medical journals and a single letter. He held his breath as he looked at the letter, relief flooding him as soon as he recognized the handwriting.

It appeared his father might finally be offering a tiny concession. The mighty Neill McDonough had acknowledged Trevor’s new name on the envelope.

Perhaps it was petty to have returned all the previous letters addressed to Trevor McDonough. He wasn’t interested in anything his father had to say and had simply scrawled
No
such person at this address
on the dozens of letters he’d received over the years. They were sent unopened back to Scotland.

This letter was addressed to Trevor McDonough, care of Dr. T. M. Kendall.

Trevor tucked the medical journals and the envelope under his arm as he strolled to the end of the hall and let himself into his room. The only furniture was a bed pushed against a wall, a chest of drawers, and a table weighed down with stacks of medical journals. A washroom at the other end of the hall was shared by all the tenants, and there was no need for a kitchen. He took all his meals at the hospital.

He tossed the journals on the table and carried the letter with him as he plopped on the bed. Should he open it? He stared out the window overlooking the railroad tracks, an oncoming train rumbling this way. By the time the train arrived, he would make his decision.

There was nothing left for him in Scotland. Opening this letter would stir a flood of painful memories, and he didn’t trust anything his father had to say.

The train drew closer, reverberating with a wall of expanding noise as the engine car barreled down the tracks. He could return this letter like all the others and let his father know he intended to abide by the horrible bargain they struck when he was only thirteen years old.

Or he could forgive his father.

He gave a bitter laugh. His father didn’t want to be forgiven; he probably only wanted to draw Trevor back into some scheme of self-aggrandizement.

The window glass rattled as the train came to a halt at the station, its brakes shrieking, steam escaping the boilers. It was time to make his decision.

He opened the letter.

His father’s firm handwriting filled two sides of a single page of linen paper embossed with the McDonough coat of arms. But it was the photograph that caught his attention. It showed three children standing beside their parents. A man with a heavy mustache, and the woman with . . .